


formal affairs

by rosebarsoap



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: F/M, Original Character(s), Solve That Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 21:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17630069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosebarsoap/pseuds/rosebarsoap
Summary: ford plus stan plus fancy party equals quite the trainwreck of a shindig. thankfully, clary merrick's here to make sure they don't get arrested.(clary merrick belongs to sirkkasnow !)





	formal affairs

“The day I willingly wear a _carrot_ is gonna be the day of my friggin’ funeral.”  
Stan tugs at the neckpiece (that he incorrectly named) as Ford fastens cufflinks on his shirt sleeves. A pair of delicate pale hands reach to Stan’s collar and tug at his lapels, tucking the scarf-thing back in.  
“It’s a _cravat_ , Stanley.” Clary Merrick pats the silky cravat down and smiles wryly at him. “Don’t you get all gussied up for your man of mystery to-do?”  
“Used’ta. Nowadays it’s lifejackets and sweaters Mabel knits.”  
“And you don’t even wear the lifejackets most of the time,” Ford chips in with a sigh, brushing dust off of his pants. “And isn’t the backstory for us getting into this event riding on us being “men of the sea” or something similarly poetically ridiculous?”  
“That’s one way to put it, yes.”  
Clary chuckles, standing back and admiring her handiwork. Ford slaps Stan’s hand when the latter goes to stick his finger in his ear, but on surface-level they look pretty sleek. Stan’s got a black crushed velvet smoking jacket on over a crisp white shirt, which she hand-embroidered a small, golden anchor onto the breast pocket, and matching, tediously ironed slacks; Ford’s three-piece suit is a deep wine red with golden stitching, partnered with a black dress shirt underneath. He certainly has a real maroon theme going on, Clary ponders, adjusting her necklace with a relieved exhale— the three of them are shoe-ins to the party now.  
She, thankfully, has immediate admission to the Owl of Athena as a member, but she had to pull a few strings to get her companions in, too. It’s a society for the hoity-toity types, the white-collars and pearl-wearers, and as a lawyer, Clary was practically begged to join. As for Stan and Ford, however…  
“You’re the two owners of a well-established (and expensive) ship that’s traveled the world,” she explains, sitting to slide her heels on. “You’re researchers traveling on a grant from Ford’s alma mater. — Don’t tell them what your actual alma mater is.”  
Ford winces.  
“But if we keep to that, you two shouldn’t have any problems. These people know me; they’re smart, but they’re trusting.”  
Clary gets back up, refusing her instinctual wobble on her shoes so she truly looks The Part, and puts her hands on her hips, giving the brothers a last once-over. She forgot that her dress is taffeta— its texture under her fingertips reminds her that while the boys look the part, she had to get dolled up too. At least she’s used to it; Stan and Ford shuffle uncomfortably in front of the door.  
“Any questions before we go?”  
Stan raises a hand.  
“Can I keep the jacket after this shindig’s done? ‘Cause I’m startin’ to like it.”  
Clary rolls her eyes and opens the front door, the cherry-red Stanmobile sitting in her driveway.  
“We’ll see how you _behave_.”  
— — — — —  
When it comes to Owl of Athena parties, people usually come dressed to the nines to sit around and drink jovially with their similarly fancy friends. This party, naturally, is no different, save for one exception.  
People are _really_ dressed up this time.  
What Clary “forgot” to tell the boys (well, Stan) that this particular party showcases something delightful indeed. As soon as Stan sees the marquee board at the hall, he’s starry-eyed-- though quickly trying to dull it behind a quirked brow and threatening-to-become-a-smile grimace.  
“ _"The Duchess Doubly Approves"_? What—?”  
“Didn’t you hear about the sequel’s remake? With Stephanie “Sturly” Stembleburgiss’s great-granddaughter Colleen “Curly” Stembleburgiss as the Duchess and Thomas Cruisain as the irascible coxswain Saunterblugget Hampterfuppinshire?”  
“Please tell me that’s a pseudonym.”  
Ford’s comment makes Clary snort as she tucks both hands into the crooks of both mens’ elbows.  
“Which name do you mean?”  
“I’m not sure which one I’m more offended by,” Ford mutters, glancing between the marquee and Clary’s fingertips drumming on his forearm.  
“C’mon, Sixer, this is _fine art_. Obviously. Heh.” Stan tries to sound sarcastic, but the woman between him and his brother can feel the excitement vibrating off of his velvet sleeve.  
“Certainly. Now let’s go inside, I want to relish going into the hall with two handsome men on each arm for as long as I can.”  
Both of the twins blush as red as the bow around her waist as they step inside.  
The second the door shuts behind them, a couple call Clary’s name and give her cordial hugs and handshakes, asking about her dress, the movie, the regular pleasantries you get from someone you’ve not seen in a while. They look back and forth to each man she’s holding onto and raise matching brows.  
“Oh, yes, these are my companions for the night— Stanley and Stanford Pines, twin sailors who entertained me by coming to see this.”  
“A pleasure to meet you both,” Ford says cordially, but pointedly nods, keeping his free hand in his pocket in lieu of a handshake. Stan takes both of the couples’ hands and shakes them instead, introducing himself as the “more charming brother” and launching into a story about their wild adventures on their “very huge and _very_ expensive” boat. Clary laughs at the appropriate times as Stan paints a wild picture about whales and explorations and whatnot, Ford chiming in with more scientific details, and soon enough they’re all filing into the theatre for the film. Ford bumps into a woman on the way in, accidentally standing on the trail of her dress, but she thankfully doesn’t seem to notice as Clary giggles.  
The lights go dim, there’s a few clinks of ice as people finish their drinks, and the movie starts rolling. The theater goes quiet as the movie progresses, aside from laughter and hushed gasps at the Duchess’s truly _scandalous_ behavior. Maybe. I’ve never seen _The Duchess Approves_ , or _The Duchess Doubly Approves_ , but I assume she’s a frivolous young woman with a penchant for dramatic hair flips.  
The credits start to roll and very conveniently coincide with a shriek of horror from the audience.  
“Yeesh, the film wasn’t that bad, was it?”  
Coming from the man with tears threatening to spill onto his cheeks, defiantly keeping them pooled above his lower eyelids.  
“My bracelet! My diamond-studded, gold-leaf-painted, emerald-plated bracelet! _It’s gone!_ ”  
Clary and Ford both turn to Stan.  
“Wh— Oh, come on. I steal a fancy watch one time and suddenly _I’m_ the one everyone accuses of theft.”  
“Actually, Stanley, you stole quite a few other things too—“  
“That’s not the point,” Stan interrupts, holding both hands up in defense. “Look, check my sleeves if you really wanna feel around up there. Ya won’t find anythin’ with the diamonds and leaves and whatever that lady said.”  
There’s a fifty dollar bill up near his left elbow, but no bracelet. Clary stands and heads to the circle of murmuring upper-class movie-goers to find the centre of attention— the desolate Miranda Perel, local It-Girl with some unfortunate mascara-streaks running down her face.  
“Yes, Howard, I checked under the seats we were in— oh, Clarissa!”  
“It’s _Clary_.”  
“My bracelet, my darling bracelet from my darling Howard, it’s missing! I swear I had it when the movie started, and once the lights came back up, it was gone!”  
Miranda sighs, flipping her hair over her shoulder before taking Clary’s hands. She’s not short on bracelets— there’s various jangly bangles and wristlets that chime when she moves.  
“Seems you had a surplus of jewelry in the first place,” Clary mutters dryly as Stan and Ford come to her side. “Where do you last remember seeing your bracelet, Miranda?”  
“Right before we came into the theater,” she replies, dabbing at the black streaks down her cheeks with Howard’s embroidered handkerchief. “I showed it to Eleanor and she admired the gold-leaf atop the emeralds.”  
“It really is delightful.” Another voice pipes up from the small crowd that formed around the scene and she pushes herself to the front— a younger woman in a dark red jumpsuit, tossing her dark hair over one shoulder. Clary glances to the woman's feet-- her shoes are rather heavily bedazzled, shining under the theater's dim lights. From what Clary can see, anyway; Howard's flashlight on his cell phone makes it hard to tell if her shoes are sparkling or if it's her scandalous ankles.  
“Have you seen it, Eleanor?” Ford asks, decidedly ignoring (or not even _noticing_ ) her admiring gaze study him up and down. “Since you’re the last, ah, witness to the missing bracelet.”  
“I’m afraid not,” she says, “But I’ll happily help you look for it if _you’re_ leading this operation.”  
“Actually, that would be me— but you can still be helpful.” Clary turns to her and folds her arms over her chest, feigning a friendly smile to combat the other woman’s angrily furrowed brow. “Ford, Stan, you two go search the hall for something shiny— Stan’s an expert at that.”  
“Sure am!”  
Stan grabs Ford by the arm and the two scurry out to the hall, oblivious of Eleanor’s dagger-glare stabbing his back.  
“Eleanor, you have your phone, right? Use your flashlight to shine it under the seats— it’ll hopefully show up under light.”  
“Fine.” Eleanor takes her phone from her jumpsuit pocket and storms off to the back of the theater to start searching.  
Miranda takes that moment to wrap Clary into a very unwanted and tearful hug, the bell sleeves of her dress ticking Clary’s shoulder-blades.  
“Oh, Clare, I don’t know what I’d do without you here—“  
“It’s _still_ Clary—“  
“I do appreciate your help in finding my bracelet, it’s very kind of you. And Eleanor— I heard through the grapevine that she disliked me after our last gathering at the Mediterranean restaurant, but she’s helping as well!”  
Clary glances to Eleanor in the back of the theater, sitting in one of the chairs and scrolling through something on her phone, the flashlight still on and pointing at her feet. Something catches the light and twinkles at her ankle.  
“That’s one word for it.” Clary watches the flashlight on Eleanor’s phone send the object at her feet sparkling and she pauses in thought. “Miranda, do you think maybe… Eleanor took it? Your bracelet?”  
“What?” Miranda looks scandalized by the sheer idea of it. “Why do you think she would do that?”  
“Oh, I don’t know…”  
Eleanor scoffs at Howard digging under the seat she’s sitting on and rests her feet atop his back.  
“Just a hunch.”  
“Well. I would have reason to believe she _would_. After her history at the prior Owl meetings.”  
Clary remembers Eleanor trying to sneak out of the Perels' home (house isn't quite the word for their McMansion) with three bottles of their finest vintages.  
“I would ask her, but…”  
Miranda nervously worries the hem of her shawl, finding a spot near her shoes to stare at and avoid Clary’s eye. She sighs, putting a comforting hand on the socialite’s shoulder (and noting how soft said shawl is. She’ll have to ask what material it’s made of when she’s less emotionally vulnerable).  
“Don’t worry,” Clary smiles, rubbing her thumb on her shoulder (and shawl. _God_ it’s soft). “I’ll ask her about it.”  
Miranda beams at her, and for a split-second, Clary wonders if the two of them could actually be… wait for it… more than awkward acquaintances.  
“Oh, _thank you_ , Cleo!”  
Maybe someday.  
Clary turns on her heel and strides in Eleanor’s direction, standing next to her and pausing until she looks up from her phone.  
“... Can I help you?”  
“You’ve got some fancy shoes on tonight.” Clary arches a brow. “Very… glittery.”  
“They were custom-made,” Eleanor replies, glancing down at her feet. She uncrosses her legs, re-crossing at the ankles. “Pearl and--“  
“Yes, yes. I saw earlier.”  
You could cut yourself on the edge in Clary’s words. Eleanor rolls her eyes and her bejeweled foot taps impatiently.  
“What do you want, Clary? I gather you’re not here to talk about footwear.”  
“I gather you are aware Miranda lost her bracelet. But I can only assume you know where it is.”  
Clary’s not one for being so blunt (that’s a lie, yes she is), but usually she’s rather polite about it. At this point, she’s so aggravated with Eleanor that she can feel the younger woman’s anger flare up until her face matches the scarlet red of her jumpsuit top.  
“Well, you _assume_ wrong,” she snaps, getting to her feet and standing with her hands on her hips. “I saw you staring at my shoes. Do you want proof I didn’t steal her little knick-knack?”  
Eleanor hoists one foot onto the armrest of her chair and hikes her pant leg up to showcase her said scandalous ankle— with one glimmering anklet on it, that is, unfortunately, not Miranda’s bracelet. Whoops.  
“This was a gift from _my_ “darling” or whatever Miranda called her lackey of a husband,” Eleanor says, smoothing her pants back to normal as she stands fully. “Daniel has significantly better taste.”  
Eleanor’s anklet is silver with a multitude of red gemstones dangling off it. Whatever Miranda’s missing piece looks like, Clary would bet good money it’s significantly less _tacky_.  
Before she can bark her biting retort, Ford appears at her side, tugging at her arm urgently. “We need to, ah, talk.”  
Clary raises a quizzical brow, but Ford grabs her wrist and pulls her out of the theater, leaving a confused Eleanor to watch them go. Ford pushes the door shut behind them with both hands, pressing his back to it and carding an aggravated hand through his hair.  
“Oh, Clary— you are _never_ gonna believe this.”  
Stan’s _on the floor_ , for whatever reason, wiping a tear from his bright eye. It looks like he just gathered himself after being in quite a few peals of giggles. He asks a hand for her to pull him up with, but she’s busy looking between the twins with both hands defiantly on her hips.  
“What on _earth_ is going on?”  
Stan’s hysterics coupled with Ford’s panic paints a not-so pretty picture to her concerned eye. Ford reaches into his jacket pocket with one shaking six-fingered hand and pulls out... Something.  
A diamond-studded, gold-leaf-painted, and (here’s the kicker) emerald-plated something.  
Clary’s features stretch in unadulterated shock. “… You didn’t.”  
“I didn’t— I didn’t _mean_ to—“  
“Looks like the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Ford!” Stan snorts, threatening to burst into laughter again.  
Clary falls silent for a long moment, and if you squint hard enough, you could catch the cogs whirring in her head as she puts the pieces together. She gets that “aha” moment after a record ten seconds; her lips slide into an easy, teasing smirk pointed at Ford’s worried face.  
“Why, Ford. I expected better from you.”  
He goes very, very pale. Lawyer-mode Clary turns its poker-faced head, her smile unfaltering.  
“Standing on the trail of an innocent woman’s dress and making the cheap clasps on her bracelet break, causing it to _conveniently_ fall into your open and waiting pocket? Truly _shameful_.”  
Ford’s shoulders loosen in relief, but his brow remains furrowed. “What will we tell Miranda? I can’t tell her I— I _accidentally lifted_ her bracelet that shook her into hysterics. Clary, she’s your friend—“  
“Well, I wouldn’t go _that_ far—“  
“How should we explain to her what happened?”  
“Okay. Okay, I know what to do.” Clary steps forward and holds a hand out, into which the obedient Ford drops Miranda’s bracelet. “Follow me.”  
As grand as she could muster it, Clary makes an entrance, with Ford and Stan trailing behind. She glances over to Miranda, smoothing the trail of her dress over the stairs as she’s consoled by her darling Howard.  
“Miranda— My companions here found it.”  
Miranda’s bottle-blonde head whirls around and she almost starts crying in relief.  
“Oh, thank goodness! You’re both wonderful, _wonderful_ men, thank you!”  
She hurries up to the front of the room, holding the long skirt of her dress in one hand as she gives both brothers an elegant kiss on the cheek. They near-simultaneously rub the backs of their necks bashfully, much to Clary’s irked-but-fond eye roll.  
“Where was it? _Did_ someone take it?”  
“You see,” Clary cuts in, interrupting Ford before he tells her the truth, “Nobody took it. It seems that the clasp broke when you were walking into the theater and it fell behind the trash can in the hallway.”  
She doesn’t catch it, but Stan has such an adoring look on his face as she flawlessly lies her way through the explanation that you’d think he’s in _love_ or something. Ford notices— of course he does-- he nudges his arm, arches a brow, and Stan flushes pink.  
“Oh, that… That makes sense— Howard! Howard, darling, the bracelet’s clasp broke! You need to get it fixed!” Miranda hands the bracelet to her husband and he slips it into the pocket of his blazer. She takes both of Clary’s hands in hers and squeezes them gratefully.  
“Thank you, Clary. I really appreciate your help in finding it.”  
“It’s _Cla_ — Oh. That’s right.”  
Miranda’s sincere thank-you makes her startle, for a moment, but she quickly squeezes Miranda’s hands right back, smiling at her warmly.  
“It’s no problem at all, Miranda. I— _We_ — were happy to help.”  
With that madness finally solved, guests start to file out of the theater, digging for their valet tickets to retrieve their cars. Miranda gives Clary and the twins one final thanks and goodbye, sliding into the backseat of her chauffeured car, but before Howard shuts the door she holds it open to tell Clary, “You’ve got some delightful friends there. I’d keep hold of the one in black, if I were you.”  
She taps a perfectly manicured finger to the bridge of her nose and Howard swings the door shut, hurrying around to the other side of the car and getting in before it sets off. Clary turns to Stan and Ford, who both look very relieved to be out of the theater at last.  
“Stan. What’s in your pocket.”  
He flinches— and immediately yanks the hand in said pocket free, turning it palm-up to show… nothing. Stan launches into a colorful excuse, but Clary dips her fingers into his jacket pocket and finds a certain silver-and-red anklet, from a certain young lady on her phone as her car drives up to the curb. She’s oblivious as Clary holds it up to her face, the gems twinkling across her stern expression.  
“Hey, you’ve never seen _my_ signature trick— “oh no, I’m old and fell over with a heart attack, let me grab onto your foot for a sec t’catch myself, whoops, false alarm”. A classic.”  
“Such a classic needs a much shorter title.”  
“I’d have to agree with her, Stan, but you can’t steal that from—“  
“Hey, hey, she won’t _miss_ it. I’d bet she’s got three like it back at her fancy-schmancy house. And besides, it’s too late to tell her now.”  
Eleanor’s car _vrooms_ away to meld into the highway’s dark expanse, a pair of white headlights disappearing into the horizon. Clary watches the car go, glances between the anklet, Stan, Ford, the car, Stan again… And promptly bursts into laughter.  
“I can’t believe you pulled that off. Figuratively and literally. Really, quite the feat.” She drops the anklet back into Stan’s pocket and pats his chest, grinning at him almost _giddily_.  
“Looks like you’ve got more than just that fifty up your sleeve.”  
Ford, thankfully, knows at least _one_ social cue— he mutters something about “bathroom” before sneaking back into the theater, leaving Stan with Clary in front of the marquee lights. Clary’s collar necklace sparkles at her throat, but Stan’s interest lies in how her eyes illuminate against the bright, grey as the stormy seas he sailed. He decides to test those waters.  
“Hey, uh, Clary?”  
“Mm?” She turns to look at him fully, tucking an errant hair behind her ear. Sturdy, strong, Stan’s never quite met a woman like her; with that in mind, he takes a small step forward, finding a spot near her shoes to stare at.  
“I wanted to, uh. Thank you for invitin’ us to this. I mean, sure, we didn’t plan on solvin’ no mystery or whatever, but— it’s… it’s fun to hang out with you. Doin’ whatever.”  
Her gaze bores a hole into his temple, but Stan presses on, not sure of where to stop now he’s started. It’s probably from the whiskey he had during the movie. Or just nerves. Or both.  
“We could be sittin’ on our damn asses and starin’ at the sky and I’d be happy if you were there too, y’know? Now, I don’t wanna get all syrupy and weird like Dipper when he was all goo-goo over Wendy, but—“  
Clary laughs, cutting Stan’s babble short as she slides her hand into his. She’s so _small_ in comparison to his rough palms: her hands are delicate, cold, smooth.  
But he knows she can pack a punch if she needs to. That’s why he’s so enamored with her, if he’s honest.  
“I understand what you mean, Stan.”  
If he squints, he could see her cheeks tint pink as she threads her fingers in his.  
“And not to get “all syrupy”, as you so articulately put it, but I’m a believer in actions speaking louder than words.”  
Before he can ask what she means, she gives his arm a firm _tug_ down and forward so he’s on her level. His eyes read quizzical behind his glasses, but widen, dilate, and then close when she kisses him, soft and full of promise. She pulls away far too soon and he blinks at her, dazed, before she taps his nose with her pointer finger.  
“There’ll be more where that came from if you give me sixty percent of the profit from Eleanor’s trinket.”  
Stan’s never a man for sharing, he must come clean with that. Ford knows all too well that Stan’s greed far outweighs quite a few moral high-grounds he could take.  
He gives her every single penny.


End file.
